Confessions of a Rabid Anti-Dentite

I had too.

First confession: I fell on my face the other day. How does that relate? Follow me, friend.

Perhaps you were one of the privileged youth who went to a dentist with cartoons, ice cream flavored fluoride, and a massage chair. I was not. My first memory of the dentist was at age six, listening to him yell at my mother and me as if I was drinking bottles of tequila instead of juice boxes because I had a couple cavities. I dreaded the bi-annual visit. We entered the sterile building that smelled of old women bathed in Robitussin. After thirty minutes of waiting, during which I piously considered how many dental emergencies made the complete disregard of my schedule acceptable, I heard my name.

I took my place beneath the light and closed my eyes indicating that I had no desire to communicate. Instead of receiving the hint, the assistant asked how is your day, how is school, are you even in school right now? I hate small talk. But I especially hate small talk when someone is picking at my teeth's crevices. If I were administering the cleaning, I think I would fill the time by telling the client my general thoughts on life. There's a captive audience if there ever was one. Obviously, this scenario is a win-win.

Instead, though, I grunted what answers I could, feeling as though I had digressed to the evolutionary state of a cavewoman. This was only perpetuated when the hand was removed and a stream of drool flowed from my mouth. I must admit, though, I like the suction utensil they use to gather said drool, and I often wish I had a pocket-sized one for those times when I over-salivate. As you know, I have over productive facial fluids.

Back to my rant. I am not really an anti-dentite. If my tooth is in extreme pain, I am immensely appreciative of administered care. I am a grown woman, though, and do not need to visit every six months to make sure all is well. Because let's be honest, the whole ritual is a nuisance stemming from a false sense of necessity imposed by an entity with an inferiority complex.

Since when did six months become the standard? I have not been to the physician in seven years, and I think my vitals are more important than my teeth. I probably have a lot of weird things accumulating throughout my body, yet it is absolutely imperative that I get them removed from my teeth. What if plaque is actually your teeth's natural sealant, protecting them from the really harmful stuff? Maybe I like the plaque build up.

So when I tell someone I have not been to the dentist in five years, they are appalled, looking at me like a deviant as they gasp in dismay and question the very morals on which I base my existence. Really? I'm supposed to be okay with the fact that you have not done a single activity to benefit your body's well being the past ten years as you shove another fast food burger in your mouth, but you're aghast that I have not been to the dentist in a little while. I am still enforcing the daily habits that lead to dental health. I am simply not spending a precious half hour with someone's fist halfway down my throat. And fifty dollars.

Why don't I buy dental insurance and save myself money? Good question. Because between the deductible and the monthly payments, my teeth would have to be dropping like flies to make it worth it.

This year, I decided to go to the dentist, because five years seems like a reasonable amount of time. My appointment was this past Monday. Because it was my first time, I obviously had to pay $200 for an x-ray. After awkwardly biting a contraption for a couple minutes, I lay down, mentally preparing for the torture that lay before me.

I was pleasantly surprised when the dental assistant told me she would not be able to clean my teeth. Why? Because I had fallen on my face and my lip was too fat. The following fifteen minutes was spent in robust, human conversation as we waited for the dentist. He stopped by, looked at my teeth, examined the x-rays, told me I had a beautiful, healthy mouth, and I was on my way. It was my favorite trip to the dentist ever. I'll go back in five years. Maybe ten.